


The Bonds That Blind

by The_Goat_of_Christmas_Past



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Kinda, M/M, Plot, Slow Burn, Team Bonding, Vomit, more pairings will follow, nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:13:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Goat_of_Christmas_Past/pseuds/The_Goat_of_Christmas_Past
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The BLU Spy isn’t feeling too well, and of course the Medic of the <em>enemy</em> team has noticed. The Heavy is giving the Medic the silent treatment, the REDs are scared of their own Soldier, and everybody is still a little cranky that their base got blown up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Dustbowl  
Stage 2, Point A**

“The new Spook seems ill,” the RED Sniper commented, looking down the scope of his rifle. He sometimes talked to himself (a habit he had developed during his years in the Outback) as he sat up in his perch, making sure his team had fewer BLUs to worry about.

Today he expected someone to talk back, though.

“He isn’t akkustomed to te respawn yet,” the Medic said, the professional opinion laid with obvious satisfaction. She had propped her foot on a crate and supported the Medigun on her leg to have one hand free to hold the binoculars she had borrowed from the Sniper, while the other hand kept the heavy gun aimed at the Soldier to build an Ubercharge. The Medic was paranoid by nature and took her vigilance for Spies to a ridiculous degree, but none of her usual twitchiness was present now as she watched the BLU Spy across the battlefield.

She and the Soldier were hiding (“BUT NOT LIKE SOME COWARDLY HIPPIES!”) in the maintenance building the Sniper was using today, waiting for the Medigun to charge before going to take out the sentry nest the BLU Engineer had managed to set up in the dugout leading to their spawn. It was nice to have company for a change, and with his teammates present the Sniper didn’t need to worry as much about getting backstabbed.

A moment ago the Sniper had taken out a BLU Scout with a clean shot in the head and watched her fall when he had spotted the half-cloaked Spy staggering out of the BLU spawn. The new Spy had arrived in Dustbowl two days ago and was still visibly shaken by the effects of the technology that brought them back to life. Everyone had respawn nausea on the first day on the job – kind of hard not to throw up after you’ve first died and then been summoned back by a machine that builds you up from scratch – but after the first couple of dozen of deaths it barely fazed you. You got used to dying pretty quickly, if that made sense. You died, you landed on your feet on the floor of the resupply room, you got back to killing.

While the Medic had jumped at the opportunity to observe their enemies from a safe location, the Soldier hadn’t so much as glanced in the direction of the window.

“A weakling,” he announced from the doorway, where he was standing guard. ”Green behind the ears, and in the face, too.”

The Sniper had to agree. What little had been visible of the Spook’s face had been very pale, and the sharpshooter was fairly sure he had been sick before returning to the battlefield. The man’s hands had been shaky as they fumbled with his invisibility watch, and his movements had lacked the grace characteristic to his class, which was why it was easy to trace his path to the shadow of the round tower to his left, where the Spy had to pause to catch his breath. It was almost a pity to send him through respawn again. Almost.

“Maybe you should lie down for a bit,” the Sniper suggested after an easy headshot. The Medic let out an amused giggle, either at the comment or the way the Spy’s head had exploded.

The Soldier, on the other hand, just grunted, and the Sniper could hear the floor boards creak as he shifted his weight from side to side. He didn’t like staying out of active battle and was getting impatient. The Sniper only hoped the American could keep himself in check and not launch any rockets while still indoors.

“Like I said, a weakling,” the Soldier repeated. “Can’t even take a bullet in the head without getting weak in the knees!”

“Give him a week or two and he’ll be just as stealty and deadly as te two oters tey have,” the Medic predicted and made a disapproving snort. “Tat klass is ridikulously overrepresented among te BLUs. Tree Spies and only one Medik – wit balance like tat it’s no wonder tey kan’t make it to te final _Kontrollpunkt_.”

“Even one is bad enough,” the Sniper agreed. Then, after quickly scanning the room in a moment of not entirely unjustified paranoia, he added, “Y’can barely even trust the ones on yer own team.”

The Medic nodded, and the Sniper didn’t miss how her hand made an involuntary twitch towards her syringe gun.

“And wit tree of tem running around tere will be no reprieve for us.” Medics and Snipers were the main targets of enemy Spies, and the RED Sniper had long since lost count of how many times he had been stabbed in the back. “Might as well enjoy what little time we have till tis one learns te drill – and knows better tan to kome at me disguised as our new Soldier! What a _dumskalle!_ ” The Medic laughed, but it was much more tense than her familiar loud cackle and soon died on her lips when neither the Sniper nor Soldier joined in.

They all exchanged uneasy looks. The BLU Spy’s mistake had been obvious, and it would have been funny, but the new Soldier, well… The Sniper suppressed a shudder and returned to scoping. He soon spotted another Scout – the boy this time – pestering their Pyro, who had run out of fuel for his (or hers, no one had ever learnt for sure) flamethrower and was having trouble hitting the BLU with his fire axe. The Scout was running and jumping in circles around him and smacking him with his bat whenever he got close enough.

Lining up the shot was a bit tricky, but the high-pitched yelp of pain the Sniper got as a response told him he had hit his mark. Not a fatal hit, but enough to slow the Scout down enough for the Pyro to finish him – rather gruesomely – with his axe. Once done, the Pyro turned to give the thumbs up in the Sniper’s direction before picking up his flamethrower and running off, most likely to find one of their Engineers to refuel it.

The Sniper reloaded his rifle and was about to survey the field again. The Medic, who had apparently waited the whole time for the BLU Spy to step out of the enemy spawn, had already found him his next target.

“Tere he is! Left side of te dugout.”

The Sniper peered through his scope, the sights of his rifle painting a red dot on a navy blue suit just as the Spy started to fade from sight. The man looked like his legs were just barely able to carry him, and he was wiping sweat off his brow with one hand as he started for the first buildings.

The Sniper pulled the trigger.

“You got him!” the Medic cheered and almost let the Medigun slip to the floor in excitement.

The Sniper didn’t claim to feel nearly as much glee over the enemy Spy’s condition as the doctor, but as another class frequently harassed by Spies, he certainly wasn’t feeling bad for the man either.

“Doesn’t make me any good, just means the bloke is bloody useless. The new guys always forget that fancy watch doesn’t make them instantly invisible.”

“Affirmative. New recruits are nothing but a nuisance on their first weeks.”

“On te kontrary – te new ones are te most entertaining,” the Medic said. She had lowered the binoculars but was still gazing out to the far side of the battlefield. The wide smile had returned to her thin lips. “Tey look so miserable after teir first experiences wit te respawn, shaky and kovered in sweat and pale wit nausea. It makes me want to just run over and hold tem klose.” She was practically purring now, and the disturbed looks she received from her teammates didn’t make her smile falter one bit. “Someting about tem just makes me want to make sure tey are alright before I kill tem.”

“Roight… How come y’ain’t this excited when _we_ get new members, then?” the Sniper asked, though he wasn’t too sure if he really wanted to know.

“Well, it’s my duty to help tem, isn’t it, since te Medigun kan kure respawn nausea, but te BLUs… I’m not required to heal _tem_. If I had te time, I would just sit back and watch tem stumble on te battlefield, falling on teir knees heaving, choking on bile, struggling for air, wiping vomit off teir mouts…”

The Sniper was starting to feel a bit nauseous himself. He already missed being alone in his nest. Hell, even the Soldier seemed uneasy, and he could tell they were both relieved to hear the telling electronic crackle from the Medigun.

“I’m fully charged,” the doctor confirmed, straightening her back and taking a proper hold of the gun.

“Alright men, move out! Sniper, cover us!” the Soldier yelled, already on his way out, and the Medic tossed the Sniper his binoculars before running after him.


	2. Chapter 2

**RED base**

The BLUs had eventually made it to the first Control Point and held it long enough to cap it, but there hadn’t been enough time for them to get even close to the second Point, and the REDs had won the round. The Scout whistled on his way back to the base, wishing in passing that Miss Pauling were there so that he could tell her how he had saved the day. He’d generously tell her the other REDs had helped some, too, but really it was thanks to his total awesomeness that they had chased the BLUs off their turf.

After a big victory like that there should have been a damn feast tonight, but since he knew what they would be having, the Scout had been in no hurry to go back to what was left of the base and had run a few laps around the perimeter before dinner. He didn’t remember who was on cooking duty today, but it didn’t really matter when all they had was military rations anyhow, except when it was the Sniper’s turn to cook and he made something he had killed himself.

Kicking pebbles and chunks of rubble on his way, the Scout went past what used to be the main building of their base and instead stepped into one of the nearby barns. It was dim and cramped, with crates of provisions and ammunition taking up most of the space, save for the improvised kitchen area the Engineers had set up in the back in one of the old stalls. The whole place still smelled of moldy hay and cow shit even after two weeks of scrubbing. When had there even been cows in this place?

The rest of the team were already there, waiting in line and looking about as excited about the food as the Scout felt.

The Scout tossed his bat and shotgun carelessly into the same stall with the rest of their weapons. No lockers here, might as well just pile them up somewhere. The Heavy’s minigun had its own stall, though. The Scout finished removing his battle gear by taking off his earpiece and pocketing it as he took his place in the line behind the Pyro.

“Is it anythin’ good?” He already knew the answer, but a part of him was still hoping…

“Brrsh wiff mphuphrrr.”

The Scout sighed and crossed his arms behind his head.

“Yeah, didn’t think so. I’m tellin’ yah, I’m so fed up with alla dis canned military shit. I mean c’mon, the only one who can eat that is Soldier, an’ I swear even ‘e’s been cursin’ it after a coupla days. Wish they hurried up with that train.”

The line moved pretty fast and it didn’t take long before the Engineer – the younger one with the robot hand – standing in the kitchen stall handed the Scout a green bowl filled with beans and some sort of sauce with little brown lumps in it. The Soldier claimed the military rations had twelve different meal variants, but the Scout swore they all looked and tasted the same. Just seeing that muck made him wish he had quit like he meant to after what had happened to their base and all his stuff.

“It sucks how we don’ even have plates anymore,” he complained as he reluctantly took the bowl. It was metallic and had a round bottom that made it rock back and forth when you tried to ate, unless you held it in place with your other hand, and the Scout wasn’t sure if it really was a bowl or just a butt-ugly helmet. They had found a whole crate of them in one side shack when scavenging for anything useful. On the crate it had said ‘Proof of Purchase’, along with the word ‘SURPLUS’, whatever the hell that meant. Bottom line, the things were ugly and impractical as hell, but they were all they had for plates.

“Oughta be thankful we’ve still got spoons, son.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz forks or knives we ain’t got no more,” the Scout muttered before heading upstairs, and the Engineer followed suit after taking a bowl for himself.

It was such a bother to climb all the way to the third floor to eat, but there just wasn’t room for tables or chairs on the first floor, so up into the hayloft it was. At least there were a few windows there, unlike on the middle floor where they slept. The staircase was old and creaky, and the one leading up to the hayloft was almost steep enough to pass for a ladder. That and the small hatch were probably a challenge for old folks like their other Engineer and the Medics. Of course it was no stretch for the Scout, even with the bowl in one hand it took him less than fifteen seconds to get up there, but it still sucked that they had to eat and sleep in a drafty old place like that.

The hayloft was a big open room with half a dozen small tables, all arranged in the middle, since that was the only part with an actual floor. The Engineers claimed that the sides were meant to be open so you could drop the hay straight into the stalls below for the animals, only now it meant that if you forgot to stick to the middle you ended up falling down to the second floor. The Scout usually jumped on purpose to get down faster, but the others were too clumsy for feats like that and only used the stairs. Well, all except for the Demoman, who had drunkenly fallen down at least ten times now, usually on top of whoever’s sleeping bag happened to be below.

So maybe there were _some_ fun things about living in a barn, though mostly the hayloft was a lousy substitute for the mess hall, rec room and briefing room in the actual base, but that was as good as it was gonna get till the repair crew got there. The next supply train wouldn’t come for almost six months, and Command wouldn’t send one any sooner, no matter how many times they complained about it. Not even Miss Pauling could do anything to get the repair crew there faster, and the Scout was sure she had done all she could. He was her favorite, after all – she wouldn’t leave him starving and homeless in this pile of crap if she had the power to do anything about it.

The Scout was about to take the empty seat at the Medics’ table, but heard them talking about finding a new test subject for some new laceration therapy and quickly steered away – let the Engie take that one. The problem was, that didn’t leave him many other choices, since the other tables were pretty much full. The Heavy and Soldier were eating and telling war stories at one table, the Sniper was asleep at another with the other Engineer doodling something on a piece of paper next to him, and one of the Spies was sharing a table with the Demo, which left two unoccupied seats at the other Spy’s table. The Pyro had disappeared as soon as he had grabbed two bowls of food, probably hiding somewhere to eat alone after taking the second portion to the new Soldier. Thank God _that_ psycho didn’t eat with them.

The Medics had picked their table on the opposite side from where the Spies were seated and were giving them sidelong glances as they talked. Wonder what the Frenchies had done to them this time. The Scout pulled himself a chair, but as soon as he sat down next to the Spy, the man grumbled something in French and moved his chair as far away as the small table allowed.

“Hey, pal, what’s your problem?”

The Spy quirked an eyebrow at him, looking like whatever it was should have been obvious.

“When you claimed today zat ze BLUs were running away at ze mere sight of you, I assumed it was just your usual bragging. Now I’m convinced zey truly did run, zough I suspect it wasn’t ze _sight_ of you zat drove zem away.”

“What are ya trying to say?”

“Take a shower, Scout,” the Spy said, now openly wrinkling his nose before turning back to scowling at his food.

“It’s full of scorpions, man!” the Scout argued, hoping that no one noticed his voice coming out a little higher than usual.

“I’m sure your smell will be enough to repel zem.”

“I’m not seeing you using that thing either!” the Scout snapped, but it only earned him a smirk from the Frenchman.

“Ya big city boys always get all antsy seeing yer first scorpion. Yer in the South now, y’all gonna hafta get used to ‘em.”

“Shut it, Truckie. I’ve seen ‘em before – hello, we’re in a frickin’ desert! – but I ain’t gonna shower with ‘em! And it wasn’t the only one – there were like ten o’ them!”

“So in spite of being scared you stuck around to count zem?” the Spy next to him smirked, making the Scout want to hurl his meal at his stupid smug face – it was all it was good for, anyways.

“I ain’t scared of no bugs! I– so, okay, maybe there weren’t ten, but more than one anyways.” He wasn’t scared of scorpions, he really wasn’t. They didn’t bother him on the battlefield where he didn’t need to stay near them, and most of them weren’t even that big, but you’d have to be crazy to be naked in a shower with one, and the temporary showers the Engineers had set up by the water tower were just _crawling_ with those creepy things…

“None’a us have been stung, Scout. Ah’m sure ya can use the showers just fine,” the Engineer at the Medics’ table assured over his shoulder. “Ya haven’t showered since the base went up in flames, and it’s startin’ to show, even with the respawn takin’ off the worst grime from the battles. Honestly, Ah’m startin’ to wonder how the Soldier and Demo can sleep with you next to them.”

“Don’t care, man, I ain’t goin’ in there again. I’ll just wait till the train comes and they fix the base.”

“Zat would certainly show uncharacteristic patience on your part,” the Spy snorted, “unless you really don’t mind having a body odour zat’s almost as repulsive as ze Bushman’s –”

“Oi! Watch it, Spook!” The Sniper had been sitting back in his chair with his hat shoved over his face, asleep judging by the snoring, but now he was up in an instant and glaring daggers at the Spy, who quickly held up his hands.

“I can well understand ze reluctance to step under zat glorified garden ‘ose ze Labourers call a shower. No sophisticated gentleman can be expected to use such primitive facilities,” he said placatingly. His smirk hadn’t gone anywhere, though, and it was obvious that by ‘gentleman’ he was referring to himself – and maybe the other Spy. “Of course, we could all just use ze showers in ze sickbay if only our good doctors stopped being so unreasonable wiz zem.”

“Zhe sickbay is for zhe _sick_ ,” one of the Medics reminded him sternly. “Ve von’t have you all flocking zhe infirmary and make a mess every time you vant to take a shover or use zhe toilet.” With that, he pushed his glasses up his nose and joined the other doctor in scowling at the Spies, who in turn smiled innocently at them.

The infirmary was the last place with working bathrooms, since it had by some miracle survived everything that had happened to the rest of the base, but the Medics had forbidden them from using them right off the bat, announcing that anyone caught wandering in the infirmary without a medical condition would be seen as a volunteer for whatever experiments they happened to be running at the time. Everyone knew the Spies went there anyway, no matter how mad the Medics were about it. The Scout wouldn’t have minded taking a shower there, too, but so far he hadn’t been able to sneak past the Medics.

Mentally cursing the Spies for their watches, the Scout finally turned to his food, which had already gone cold. Not that it could make it any worse. He had been the last in line, so of course he had got the bent spoon, too. After briefly trying to unbend it without snapping it in half but only succeeding in making it even more crooked, he just started gobbling down the lumpy stuff, trying to taste as little of it as possible. _Wish there was at least some Bonk! to wash this down with…_

The Spy next to him had left most of his food uneaten, and was now twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers and eyeing him appraisingly.

“Such charming table manners,” he commented when the Scout paused for air.

“Screw you, Frogs, it’s not like this is some fancy French gourmet meal you’d want to savor.”

”’ow many times must I tell you imbeciles zat I’m Italian, not French!” the Spy huffed in annoyance, reaching into his pocket for a lighter.

The Scout rolled his eyes.

“Well, jeez, how are we supposed to know what lame-ass country ya come from when ya have dat same stupid accent as the other Frog? Why d’ya use it anyway?” The Spies even looked exactly the same with their suits and masks. The Medics and Engineers you could at least easily tell apart with one of the Medics being a woman – they had taken to calling each other Johann and Ingrid, though everyone knew they weren’t their real names – while one of the Engineers had a robot hand and the other was so old he probably had a few years on Santa Claus.

“It seems to be ze tradition ‘ere,” the Spy shrugged. “It ‘elps me to stay in character when disguising as one of ze BLU Spies, who are, in fact, all French. And even if I was French, no one would believe it if I didn’t speak wiz an accent.”

“I don’t get it: how can there even be so many spies in one lousy country? You’d think there’d be some in other places, y’know?”

The Spy at the other table smirked.

“Well, we _are_ ze best in ze business. It’s only natural zat Mann Co. wants to ‘ire us.”

“I say we don’t need any rotten Europeans here,” the Soldier barked proudly. “They are inferior to us in every way. This is AMERICAN soil, damn it, it takes an AMERICAN to defend it! We should have a real, honest _AMERICAN_ Spy!”

Both the Spies burst out laughing, and the Soldier waited, arms crossed and face flushed red under the helmet, for them to stop and say what was so damn funny.

The Spy at the other table was the first to get a hold of himself, although he made no attempt to suppress his grin.

“If I may begin, dear colleague?” he asked, and since the Spy next to the Scout was still bent over the table, laughing uncontrollably and snorting like a horse, continued, “For starters, Monsieur Soldat, American spies are not known for zeir subtlety, and I suspect my colleague was ‘aving a mental image of you or our dear Scout trying to pass as a Spy wiz all your charming quirks.” He paused to let the newly rising bouts of laughter from the other Spy confirm his words. “Also, I’m fairly certain an ‘onest spy wouldn’t stay in business for very long.”

“WE DON’T NEED ANY SPIES AT ALL!” the Soldier yelled even louder, face flaming red with rage to cover the blush of embarrassment. “THEY ARE ALL A BUNCH OF COWARDLY SISSIES WHO HAVE NO PLACE IN A REAL WAR! RED WOULD BE MUCH BETTER OFF WITHOUT YOUR LOT, AND WE’D HAVE TWO EXTRA VACANCIES FOR SOME REAL FIGHTERS!”

“Oui, I’m sure ze BLU’s Engineer and Sniper would welcome a few more ‘eads for target practice once zere was no one left to take zem out for ze rest of you,” the Italian Spy mocked in good humour as he fished his lighter out of the Scout’s plate and then bent down to reach for the cigarette he had dropped on the floor during his laughing fit.

The Scout was just about to tell him what he thought of _his_ table manners, when the younger Engineer decided to redirect the conversation before anyone could start a fight.

“Speakin’ of Spies, Ah’ve been hackin’ sappers off my machines all mornin’, with there being three BLU Spies now and all, but the afternoon was much quieter, almost normal. Come to think of it, so was yesterday, and Ah don’t think Ah’ve been stabbed any more than usual. Any of you been killed by the new Spy?”

“Nope, hasn’t got me once,” the Scout said. After having the Spy’s hand in his food, he didn’t feel like eating anymore and just pushed his plate aside. The Soldier would feed their leftovers to his raccoons, though the Scout doubted even they would wanna eat anything so gross.

He listened with half an ear as the others recalled their encounters with the BLU Spy. Johann was the first one to excuse himself, saying it was his turn to use the lab, and the Heavy was quick to join him. The doc liked to cut them open and grope their organs, and for some reason the Scout didn’t understand and absolutely didn’t want to think too hard about, the giant Russian actually let him do it. 

“I have been backstabbed plenty of times tis week,” Ingrid said sourly when they were gone. “Hard to say by which ones, tough.”

“A Spy who is seen is generally not very good at ‘is job,” the Italian Spy said with a sly wink, which earned him another glare from the Medic. She had her fingers wrapped tightly around her Spy-checker, which only seemed to amuse the Spy more.

“Still, seems like the new Spy hasn’t got us too many times yet,” the Engineer said, looking thoughtful.

“The bloke’s got respawn nausea,” the Sniper said. He had gone back to slouching in his chair and didn’t bother lifting his hat off of his face as he talked. “Saw him stumble about the field today. Almost felt sorry for the guy.”

“Still?” the Scout frowned. “I thought it only lasts like a day. I puked after the first respawn, and that was it.”

“Hmph, yeh must have been lucky, laddie. S’not the same fur everyone,” the Demo said, though he had to raise his voice for anyone to hear him with the Soldier yelling at the Sniper that BLUs deserving no pity, except in the form of bullets. “I was sick fur almost two weeks when I was first hired. Was like the longest hangover of me life. Donnae know why it works like that, though.”

The Medic’s face immediately lit up.

“I’ve done some research on tat – on my freetime, of kourse, since te RED Kommand refuses to fund it, claiming te phenomenon is too minor to be of any signifikance and– where was I? Right, I noticed tat while one kould teorize tat te intensity and duration of te respawn nausea depends on properties such as age, weight or in te Demo’s kase, sobriety or lack of it, or maybe even te manner tat kauses te first respawn, none of tat is actually relevant and te issue is instead purely genetic. What’s interesting is tat all te genes I’ve found so far tat seem konnected to te side-effects of te respawn are lokated on te same kromosome, meaning it’s likely a matter of genetic linkage and tat te number of certain alleles an individual has determines how severe teir respawn nausea is and if it lasts a day or a week. To konfirm my teory I’d need access to te medical files in both RED and BLU employee arkives, but I’m konfident tat –“

The Scout yawned and stood up to leave. He had stopped listening when it was clear he didn’t understand half of what the Medic was saying, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask and risk making the lecture even longer. If he found the Pyro, they could play catch in the yard and forget for a moment what a crappy place they had to live in.

He was already lowering himself down the hatch when he heard the Medic chuckling, “Of kourse, ten tere are tose who _never_ overkome te side-effects.”


	3. Chapter 3

**RED base**

”–so I was gonna sneak past their lines to surprise them at their spawn, and on my way I saw their Scout go to that side tunnel that goes to the Second Point. The Engies had their sentries up, so I knew she ain’t gonna be a problem, so I kept goin’ and flanked the BLU Pyro in the other tunnel – saved your ass there, by the way, he was headed your way, and we all know you don’t see or hear shit when you’re scopin’. Anyway, I got blown up by the Soldier before I got to the BLU spawn, so I ended up back in ours and gotta run all the way across the field again. I heard shoutin’ in the same tunnel I took last time, and get this: she was still in ‘ere – the Scout, I mean – arguin’ with the other Scout! I was like ‘how haven’t any of you guys killed them yet?’ I had to take the guy out with my Backscatter before the other Scout even noticed I was there and got down to fight me!

“I don’t get why they gotta be at each other’s throats all the time insteada, y’know, trying to kill _us_? Wonder if they’re always like that? Their other Scout gotta be a real dumbass, I’m tellin’ you, ‘cuz if _we_ had a hot chick on our team, I’d do a whole lot more than argue with her, y’know what I mean?”

“Even my _fork_ knows what ya mean, mate,” the Sniper said when the Scout started jabbing him in the side with a finger to get his attention over breakfast. “Would ya like t’ hear its opinion on it?”

“That’s cold, man, what did I ever do to you? And hey, how come you _have_ a fork? I thought we only had spoons now.”

“Brought it from my camper.”

“Ya got any more of ‘em? Could I borrow one?” the boy asked, trying to sound casual, but his eyes were now fixed on the fork like it was a shiny new hat.

The Sniper just shoved another forkful of food into his mouth.

“Sorry mate, don’t trust ya wi’ my silverware after last Halloween.”

“C’mon, you still on about that? I promised I won’t do dat again!”

That went on for a while as the Scout made excuses and tried to convince him of his reliability as someone to borrow kitchen utensils and grenades to, but eventually he just ignored the runner’s pleading altogether. The Sniper was used to long stretches of silence in his line of work, but after joining RED, where there was always at least one constantly chattering Scout somewhere within earshot, he had deemed it necessary to also develop the ability to put up with endless amounts of inane babble without breaking a nerve. Professionals knew how to adjust. These days his ears went automatically deaf whenever the Scout’s loud and cocky voice cut through the air.

It was theoretically possible he might miss something crucial the Bostonian said, unlikely as it was, as a result, so there were some key words he allowed to enter his consciousness (such as ‘Spy’ and ‘dinner’) so he wouldn’t miss anything actually important by mistake.

The previous Scout on their team had been just as loud, but at least his voice hadn’t been this nasal, and he’d been relatively harmless most of the time. _This one_ stuck his nose wherever he could and complained to no end about anything he couldn’t fit it in (or get out of once it got stuck there). When it came to serving as a distraction for the enemy team, he was clearly aiming to become the best in the trade, judging by how much he practiced by annoying his own team.

Now, the Sniper could relate to ambition, but the Scout wasn’t the best yet, and he mentally turned the kid on mute and got comfortable for a quick catnap, tucking his fork safely away into his pocket before crossing his feet on the table and pulling his hat over his face. If the littler bugger couldn’t take the hint, he was welcome to waste his breath, the Sniper could sleep just fine with him chattering next to him. He was rather proud of being the only one on the team who could.

Being able to ignore distractions was the mark of a professional, after all.

He had barely closed his eyes, though, when he heard hurried steps coming up the stairs and lifted the brim of his hat in time to see the Medic come panting up with her breakfast. She could only have moved faster with an enemy Spy on her tail, and stumbled on the last step in her hurry, spilling half of her coffee on the floor and only just avoiding falling face first on the puddle. She seemed to barely notice, though, and after regaining her balance she quickly took the first available seat (at an otherwise empty table) and bowed her head low enough over her plate to hide her face.

The Sniper wasn’t surprised to see the Heavy climb up soon after with the furious air of a man mortally insulted. With an angry frown on his face and his mouth set in a hard line the giant of a Russian was the picture of menace even as he squeezed himself ungracefully through the little hatch with an audible _flop_. As the Heavy approached her, the Medic kept her eyes cast down and shoulders drawn in, as if readying for a strike. She flinched when the Heavy came to a stop right in front of her table, which she only now seemed to realize was the only one with unoccupied seats left. She paled and let out a little panicked squeak, but instead of sitting at the table - or flipping it - the Heavy lifted one of the chairs with one hand and carried it over to the Sniper and Scout’s table, leaving the Medic alone at hers.

“Dobroe utro,” he grunted as a greeting, setting down his tray and chair and taking a seat. The man was still scowling as he started on his breakfast, and it was clear he wasn’t in a talking mood.

Behind him the Medic had slumped in her seat, though she didn’t look in any way relieved at having survived her near-confrontation with the heavy weapons specialist.

The two had probably crossed paths downstairs in the kitchen. The Heavy and Ingrid usually avoided each other when off the clock, which was a challenge now that they had to live in the same little barn and even sleep in the same stall, with only their German Medic, Johann, as the barrier between them.

It wasn’t like they argued. In fact, they never even talked. With the whole barn being more or less the same open space, you could easily have heard any arguing from downstairs, just as you could take part in any conversation from up the hayloft without any need to raise your voice.

Which was something the Scout could never seem to remember, and the brat was impossibly loud for his size as it was.

Even he had shut his cakehole for the scene between the Heavy and Medic, though, as had everybody else in the room, before resuming their conversations without anyone commenting on the Heavy’s sour mood or how the Medic was trying to drown herself in what was left of her coffee. No one wanted to get themselves involved in what was between them. The only one foolish enough to try to meddle had been their old Scout, and although that wasn’t why he had lost his legs, the kid hadn’t tried the same stunt twice.

Their quarrel had started as nothing, and the Sniper was sure it’d be forgotten eventually. It had been nearly three years now, to be sure, but as long as they didn’t fight in the mess or out on the field, he didn’t think their little issues were a problem – least of all his.

Damn if it didn’t sometimes make being in the same room with them bloody awkward, though.

As the Sniper settled back down for his nap, the Scout turned to continue his complaints about the team’s lack of hot chicks to the Pyro, who was playing with his lighter at the next table.

“Mrr-rr hudduh hrr,” the Pyro suggested.

“Are you kidding me? Medic’s got to be older than my aunt – and _she’s_ got grandkids!”

“Hr? Hrr Mrh?”

“No, not the Medic. My aunt.”

“Hrm ohr rrh thrr?”

“My cuz is two years older than me. Got married pretty young. Rachel’s two and Betty was born just a month ago.”

“Mmph hurr phrr,” the Pyro mumbled dismissively.

“Well, okay, maybe it doesn’t make her so old – but come on, _grandkids_! Do ya have any idea how unsexy that is?”

“Mmmph hrrh mh hrr.”

“Nah. What would you know about stuff like that, anyway?”

“Waf afrr thrr Mphdrr?”

“ _The Soldier?_ You frickin’ kidding me?” There was the sound of a palm slamming on the table, and the Sniper felt it shake under his boots.

“Shrr nrt thr mph.”

“Seriously? _’Not that bad?’_ Have ya seen what she did to our base? Do ya see how we live now? You hearin’ dis, Snipes? Can ya believe this crap?”

The Sniper swatted absently at the boy’s hand jabbing his side again.

“Hm? Sorry, mate, stopped listening when yeh started raving about yer aunt.”

“How can ya just sit ‘ere and not give a fuck? Dat freak’a nature burnt down all of our rooms and us with ‘em! We don’ have beds or runnin’ water or even actual food or frickin’ _clothes_!” the Scout went on and gestured wildly at his wrinkled clothes. “All I have are the ones I keep in my locker in the respawn room and the jammies I was wearing when dat psycho blew us up when we tried to get the rocket launcher from her! Alla my stuff is gone and ya can’t even borrow me one damn fork, you cheap faggot!”

“Don’t waste your breazh on ‘im, Scout,” one of the Spies huffed before the Sniper had a chance to tune out any outside noises again. “Ze Bushman didn’t lose any of ‘is belongings, zough I doubt zere even is anyzing of value in zat piece of rust ’e so endearingly calls ‘ome. And even if ‘e ‘ad lost ‘is precious van, ‘e would be perfectly content sleeping under ze open sky, or perhaps digging ‘imself a nice burrow under a rock like ze little wild beast ‘e is.”

The Spies here were on his team, so technically he wasn’t supposed to knock the cigarette out of the Frenchman’s mouth along with a couple of teeth, but the Sniper was pretty sure it would be worth it even if he didn’t get paid for doing it.

“Better shut it, Spook, or yeh’ll take the short route downstairs,” he growled, sitting up again and lifting his hat to scowl at the Spy – it was impossible to tell if the one smirking infuriatingly at him was the Italian or the French bloke. It didn’t really matter which was which, though, since they were both just as intolerable.

The Spy – whichever he was – reached inside his jacket for his cigarette case and took his time selecting one. Typical of any Spy, first picking a fight and then ignoring you altogether. Once he was satisfied with his durrie, he started to twirl it between two fingers and finally turned back to the Sniper.

“I’m simply stating ze facts, Bushman. Clearly you must prefer primitive sleeping conditions to ze comfort of an actual bed, seeing as ‘ere you are, sprawled in a chair wiz all ze class of a drunkard, in spite of being ze only one of us to possess a bed now. As old and flea-infested as it undoubtedly is.” Behind him, the other Spy was mirroring his indignant look.

Apparently it had really got under the Spies’ skin that they had to sleep in a barn, while the most outdoorsy member of the team had survived the incident with his home and personal belongings unscathed. The Sniper’s face split into a grin.

“What’s the matter, mates? Missing yer fancy smoking room so badly even my camper starts t’ look loike a palace?”

The Spy snorted and would no doubt have made some snide remark and then recounted how many fine wines and priceless paintings had been in that smoking room, had the Scout given him half the chance. As it was, the boy was used to their bickering and spoke up again before the Frenchman could continue. For once the Sniper was almost glad the little gremlin had such a big mouth.

“Well I ain’t gonna put up with this shit anymore!” he announced, shoving his half-eaten breakfast away. The round bottom of the plate made some of the brown muck in it spill on the table, but the Scout paid it no mind. “If we gotta keep fighting the BLUs with our base burnt to the ground, we better at least get some actual food in here! I say we go to town an’ find us some real meat and veggies and –”

There was a loud crack as a fist hit the surface of a table, the wobbly thing almost breaking down into splinters from the impact. The sound was enough to put a stop to the Scout’s speech and the unanimous mumbles of approval that had begun to arise, and the whole team fell silent for the second time that morning. Everyone turned to the Soldier, who had risen from his chair and was scowling at them from under the peak of his red Team Captain hat.

“The next official weekend off is two weeks from now,” he bellowed. “Until then you have no business stepping outside this base!”

“Ya kiddin’, right? Ya think we should just starve here when all we gotta do is just go to Teufort to do some shopping ta fix it.”

“THAT’S AGAINST REGULATIONS!”

“Screw those! No one will care if a few of us make a quick trip there an’ back.”

“Zhe boy has a point, Herr Soldier,” the German Medic, Johann, cut in before the Soldier could rant on. “I understand it’s against zhe rules to leave zhe base but, given zhe circumstances,” he said in a reasonable tone, gesturing at the hayloft they had for a mess hall, “vouldn’t you agree zhat in zhis case an exception might be justified?”

“THERE ARE NO EXCEPTIONS TO REGULATIONS! NONE OF YOU MAGGOTS IS GOING AWOL ON MY WATCH!” the Soldier roared. “As the leader of this team it’s my duty to make sure everything goes according to the standard procedure. That means that you’ll stay in this base even if I had to nail you down one toe and finger at a time!”

The Sniper rolled his eyes at that, and he wasn’t the only one. The REDs didn’t really have an official leader, the Soldier had simply nominated himself based on his military background and the idea that the team needed a strong drill sergeant to whip them into shape. The Administrator was the closest actual superior they had, so any authority the Soldier had was earned by ear-splitting ravings and forced disciplinary exercises.

Which was why everyone made sure not to roll their eyes when the American was looking in their direction.

The Scout, however, still wouldn’t give up.

“I don’t care!” he yelled back. By now he had stood up as well and was glaring defiantly up at the Soldier. “It’s been three weeks already and I won’t just sit here starving when there’s actual food a few miles away! I’m not gonna eat another bite of this crap!”

No doubt the Bostonian would have said more, but that’s when the Soldier suddenly lunged at him. Despite his challenging stance, the Scout was unprepared for the attack, and the Soldier was able to catch him in a chokehold before he could retaliate or wriggle away.

“DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK ILL OF THE FOOD OF OUR ANCESTORS! THESE ARE THE SAME RATIONS OUR FOREFATHERS ATE WHEN THEY FOUGHT TO DEFEND OUR COUNTRY IN THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE!” he roared, drowning the Scout’s muffled protests, and the Sniper had just enough time to pull his legs off the table before the Soldier slammed the boy’s head into it.

“Not too sure that’s accurate,” the Engineer with the Gunslinger muttered from his table.

The Demoman just rolled his eye.

“Donnae. They sure taste like they could be that old. I’m running low on scrumpy jest from washing down all the dust that comes with them.” To demonstrate, he took a swig from his flask.

That was about as much concern as anyone showed for their teammate’s distress. The runner pissed the Soldier off almost routinely, and the sight of him being pinned down and choked was nothing new to them. Even the Sniper and Heavy just watched on as the Scout squirmed and struggled for breath on the table between them.

The Soldier’s voice had reached the foghorn decibels, and he was emphasizing every word by slamming the Scout into the table with enough force that, had the makeshift thing been any sturdier, the boy’s skull would have cracked like an egg. The table wobbled and creaked and would probably be the first to give.

“THIS IS THE FOOD THAT WON US AMERICA, AND I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU SPOILED BUTTER MUFFIN TO DISRESPECT IT!”

“Whacha… gonna… do?” the Scout croaked. “Not… let me… have any?”

“NO. FIRST YOU WILL LICK YOUR PLATE – AND THE TABLE – CLEAN, AND THEN YOU WILL PICK UP YOUR UNGRATEFUL ASS AND GO DOWNSTAIRS TO FILL ANOTHER PLATE, BECAUSE YOU HAVE JUST VOLUNTEERED TO TAKE BREAKFAST TO OUR NEWEST RECRUIT.”

It was impressive how fast the Scout’s face went from red to ashen, and his eyes seemed to be bulging out of his head even after the Soldier finally released him from the chokehold. He got down from the table, wobbling just like it had a moment ago.

“N-no way, dude! I ain’t going near that whack job!” His voice was rising as he talked and he backed away from the Soldier, waving his hands frantically. “Don’t you remember what that lunatic did to me the last time we were in the same room? What she did to _all of us_! Don’t even think I will– just _no_!”

The Bostonian’s entire skinny frame was trembling, and from the startled faces of most of the RED team the Sniper could see he wasn’t the only one to think this was a bad idea. The new Soldier was the first female Soldier to date to be hired by either RED or BLU, and likely the last the RED Command would hire after the entire RED team threatened to quit after the second day in the base with her – that is, the entire team except for the Pyro, who had apparently been pen pals with her back when she had still been safely in that mental institute the Administrator had found her. The Sniper shuddered to think how they had met.

The new Soldier – or ‘Patient Five-Four-Six’, as she no longer responded to anything else – had been locked up in one of the sheds near the battlefield ever since, and aside from the Pyro, no one would go within a good 150 feet from her if they could help it. She was let out only for work, and only the Pyro could seem to lure her back in there after the fighting was done for the day and get her to hand in her weapons without casualties. The masked pyrotechnic was also the one who had somehow convinced the rest of the team to stay after the destruction of the base.

Five-Four-Six wasn’t safe to her team even during battles, attacking anyone in sight no matter the colour they were wearing, and to make the Scout to take her food was sure to spell disaster. No point risking any more damage to the base – to _themselves_ – especially since in half an hour the Soldier could spend her energy on the enemy team instead of her own, so the Sniper spoke up.

“Think the kid is right, Solly. S’not safe fer anyone but Pyro, and we don’t need t’ know what else she’ll break if she gets out before battle.”

“Remember how long it took ta take her down last time?” the Demo joined in. “I donnae want ta get killed by me own explosives again.”

“Well maybe if you hadn’t left the door to your room open we’d still have a roof on us,” one of the Engineers muttered.

“I didnae leave it open! She came in through the bloodeh ceilin’ wi’ a rocket launcher an’ started throwing ‘em around!”

“How does Command expect us to contain her?” Johann grumbled, massaging his temples in frustration. “Zhere are only tvelve of us!”

The Soldier’s nostrils flared at their complaining and he puffed his chest to rage at them, but the menacing creak of a chair from the Heavy rising to his feet stopped them all in their tracks. The giant wore a grave face as he stepped between the Soldier and Scout.

“I agree with Leetle Sniper. Pyro should go. I go too, make sure all goes right.”

The Soldier was completely immune to the threat that the Heavy’s size posed, even foolishly so, so it must have been his tone alone that caught his attention. For a moment he just stood there, arms crossed over his chest and scowling at the Heavy from under his cap. The Scout was hiding behind the Russian, shaking as if waiting for a death sentence, and the Sniper couldn’t really blame him.

When the Soldier finally spoke up, his voice had dropped to almost normal talking volume. “Fine. The two of you go. Once she has eaten, you will let her out and escort her to the respawn room.” Then, as if feeling that this rare moment of being reasonable called for a reminder of his authority, he finished with a salute and a roaring, “ALRIGHT MAGGOTS, YOU HAVE YOUR ORDERS. MOVE OUT!”

The Pyro answered with a cheerful salute of his own before disappearing down the hatch, followed by the Heavy. The Scout let out a breath he had probably been holding this whole time, and slumped back in his chair. He didn’t say a word for the rest of the meal, and neither did anyone else. The Sniper knew to savour a peaceful breakfast and a quiet Scout, both of which were rare enough occurrences. However, he’d gladly suffer the Scout’s incessant pestering every day for the rest of his life if the cause of his current silence had never been stationed in Dustbowl.

“Mission begins in three minutes.”

Everyone was getting ready for battle and the Sniper had just picked the Razorback from his locker when ‘Five-Four-Six’ entered the respawn room with the Pyro and Heavy. She was a big woman who easily towered half the men on the team and would have made a convincing Australian if she grew a moustache and made a full recovery from the malnourishment from the years in a nuthouse. She had a wide face and high cheekbones that jutted out so much they were enough to stop the fall of her over-sized helmet. Some of her short curls the colour of dirt were visible from under it, and at first glance she looked just like any another RED in her Soldier’s uniform.

They held no such delusions now. All the usual prebattle chatter ceased immediately, and everyone made sure to give the new Soldier plenty of space. The Sniper was glad of the helmet that hid her eyes from view, for he had never seen such an empty stare on anyone with a pulse. They did come alive when she was on a rampage, but you never wanted to be in a situation when you could see that.

And the Sniper’s father said _he_ was a crazed gunman.

“Ah, all the beets are here!” Five-Four-Six said as a form of greeting, a haunting smile playing on her lips as she looked at her teammates. Her voice was low and always a little slurry. “Does any of you need a peeling?”

The question caused several of them to take an extra step away from her and the Scout to hide behind the Medics’ coat tails. The new Soldier remained completely oblivious to their unease and continued to smile while the Pyro waddled over to the lockers to get his flamethrower. The Heavy remained behind the Soldier, acting as a bodyguard, though it was the team he was protecting from her and not the other way around.

After a moment of silence the Gunslinger Engineer – called Eddy to avoid any mixup with the team’s senior Engineer – took a cautious step towards Five-Four-Six after first glancing over his shoulder to make sure the Medics had their Mediguns at the ready.

“Er, no. But I bet the blokes _on the other side of the gate_ could use a good, uh, peeling. You know, the ones in _blue_ clothes?” he said pointedly, putting so much emphasis on who they were supposed to attack that under any other circumstances the Sniper would have thought he was laying it on a little thick. But after seeing the new Soldier skin someone alive with just a shovel and her bare hands, no precaution seemed exaggerated. At least the victim of that particular kill had been a BLU, but the memory still made the Sniper shudder. The new BLU Spy definitely hadn’t had an easy first week. Poor sod.

“The Bowl is full of them,” Five-Four-Six agreed with the Engineer. Then she turned to the Pyro, who had returned with her rocket launcher, shotgun and shovel and now handed them to her as if they weren’t the same weapons she had used to kill them almost as many times as the BLUs. The Soldier took them enthusiastically and hefted the rocket launcher on her shoulder. “Blue means they are raw. They need to be peeled and fried!”

The Pyro made an eager muffled noise in response and produced little puffs of fire from his flamethrower for good measure, whereas the Sniper and the rest of the team hurried to make themselves scarce from the now armed lunatic. Their resident Soldier, however, seemed to take their huddling in front of the gates as eagerness to get into battle and smiled broadly at them.

“It’s about time you sorry maggots got some fighting spirit!” He then proceeded to bark the maggots, ladies and cupcakes – which loosely translated as ‘offence’, ‘defence’ and ‘support’, respectively – their orders for the day.

“Mission begins in ten seconds,” the Administrator’s voice howled, and the Soldier saluted the loudspeaker before turning back to ‘his’ troops.

“Remember: if I meet one of you standing idly or crying in a corner while the rest of us are out there defending American soil, I’ll kill you myself! Alright men, make me proud! MOVE OUT!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Dustbowl  
Stage 2, Point A **

The BLU Spy had died three times today, and he knew he couldn’t take much more. The first two respawns hadn’t been so bad, merely giving him a headache and a few minutes of dizziness, but the third – oh God, the third – had brought forth a surge of nausea so intense it left him dry heaving and gasping for breath long after he had emptied his stomach.

Even now, half an hour and several backstabs and sapped buildings later he was still shivering periodically and rubbing his temples with gloved hands in an attempt to ease the headache. His throat hurt, and the taste of bile mixed with the aftertaste of half-digested food in his mouth was revolting. At least a cigarette or two was of some help with that. He was desperate for water, but at the same time didn’t think he could hold it down.

The Spy had disliked more than a few of his jobs over the years, but his persistent respawn nausea had quickly made this the one he hated the most. Had the unpleasant condition subsided after a couple of days like it was supposed to, the Spy would most likely have enjoyed his work busting sentries and dispensers, deceiving his opponents and stabbing every back that was carelessly presented to him. Being effectively immortal was certainly a perk not included in most job descriptions, but the sudden bouts of sickness, crippling migraines and being soaked in cold sweat on a daily basis, all of which made worse by the constant desert heat, had a way of taking the joy out of it.

The nausea wasn’t even the worst of it. If it had been, he was sure he would have eventually got it under control. The heart of the problem was that each successive death left him feeling significantly worse and made him an easier target for the enemy team, which in turn caused him to get killed _again_ in short order. It was a vicious cycle, one he had yet to find a way out of. He had gone to the team’s Medic, but besides pointless – and bizarre – experiments the British doctor had been powerless to offer him any other solution than simply waiting it out.

So the Spy had been left struggling to play his part in this miniature war, but as the weeks went by without the sickening feeling easing up even a little, there was less and less doubt that he was one of those few who never got rid of it.

How very wonderful for him.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t doing his job, however. The Spy had quickly got the hang of his new equipment and how to best use them against the enemy team. The RED Sniper had fallen for his Medic disguise just a moment ago and paid with his life, and now it was time for the Engineers.

“Spy’s sappin’ mah sentry!”

“That Sniper is a bloody Spy!”

“I Spy with my little eye!”

“KILL HIM BEFORE HE CLOAKS!”

The shouts were immediately followed by a rain of rockets, bullets and sticky bombs flying in every direction, and the BLU Spy was quick to take cover before being ripped to shreds. Behind some barrels he quickly fumbled for his watch and turned invisible, making a break for a shed that would provide more substantial cover from the angered enemy team.

The BLU team’s two other Spies would smugly recall times they had single-handedly sapped entire sentry nests and killed the Engineers guarding them, but the newest Spy was inclined to think that either those tales were vastly overexaggerated, due to a fluke or just plain lies. At the very least those sentry nests hadn’t been guarded by half the RED team at the time.

A sapper required several moments to put a sentry out of commission for good, and with half a dozen REDs on alert the Engineers could save their machines without getting backstabbed while at it. Alone the Spy could do little but make an annoyance of himself under different disguises and then running for his life.

At least he had got out without a scratch. There was an unfortunate amount of dust on his suit, though, _and_ , he realized as he looked down to check the state of his attire, there was blood on his tie! That insufferable Sniper had killed him more times than he cared to count, and when he got him for a change, the Bushman had ruined his tie with his blood!

The Spy wondered absently if he would run out of suits before their next appointed leave and a chance to find a decent dry cleaner, before returning to the matter at hand and concluding that it would take a concentrated effort to clear the roof that housed Point A.

Which would have been easier without half of his team dead from trying rush the control point head first.

Speaking of which, as the Spy circled around the shed he spotted the BLU Soldier, one of the Scouts and the Pyro coming out of the dugout, all fresh from respawn.

“GIVE ‘EM HELL, BOYS!”

“Let’s waste ‘em!”

“Hudda hudda hooh!”

The Spy uncloaked, but before he could get their attention, his teammates had already run past and straight at the REDs, yelling and firing their weapons madly. A moment later the Pyro was blasted into bits by a Wrangler-controlled sentry and the Scout was blown up by the RED Soldier and Demoman before she got even close to the Point.

The sight of his comrades getting instantly killed didn’t seem to dishearten the BLU Soldier, however. The man gave a mighty roar and rocket-jumped towards the REDs, demonstrating an astounding lack of self-preservation the Spy was convinced had nothing to do with the insurance granted by the Medigun and respawn; no doubt the American had been as reckless already before either had been there to back him up.

By some miracle neither the sentries or the REDs got the Soldier as he flew across the field, firing rockets all the while. He even managed to destroy the minisentry of one of the Engineers and wound several REDs before landing on the Point and getting promptly killed before he had a chance to reload or switch to his shovel.

The Spy shook his head and fought the urge to groan in frustration. They had been at this all morning, not to mention the past two weeks it had taken them to get _back_ here after the REDs had forced them to retreat to Stage 1. It had been only yesterday that they’d finally regained their lost ground, and no one, including the Spy, had the patience for being stuck here again. As the newest addition to the BLU team, much of the blame for their recent failures had fallen on him, even though the Gravel Wars had continued in a similar tug of war fashion for decades before he had become involved in them.

Nevertheless, for the time being there was nothing he could accomplish here, so he decided to retreat across the minefield guarding the dugout to the BLU respawn. On his way he saw a new batch of BLUs rushing to their death and noted with some surprise that their Engineer was among them, carrying a large blue toolbox.

BLU had two Demos, and the Spy wasn’t surprised to see that the Engineer had left one of them to guard her machines. The two were like her rabid watchdogs. The Spy was sure to approach the resupply room uncloaked and undisguised, but still got a grenade launcher aimed at his face as soon as he stepped into view.

“Mon Dieu, non, we’re on ze same team!” the Spy cried and instinctively held his hands up to shield himself, for all good it would do. Respawn from friendly fire was the last thing he needed, the times he had died today were quite enough.

“Don’t come any closer”, a voice warned, hoarse from years of alcoholism and just barely recognizable as female. “Stay where you are.”

“Wiz pleasure”, the Spy said, reaching into his jacket for his disguise kit and lit a cigarette to help recompose himself. “I only came to ask if we are quite done wiz running to our deaths and ready to move on to some more productive strategy. Incidentally, where did ze Labourer go?”

It was an unofficial tradition among the BLUs that the longest-serving member of the team was considered a leader of sorts, as he – or in this case, she – had most experience and knew the base and everybody on the team best. The BLU Engineer was the only one who could enforce any semblance of discipline on the lot of lunatics that was the BLU team.

The Demo didn’t answer – the Demolition Ladies rarely spoke, and mostly in their own language – but her gaze went briefly to the inactive teleport set up by the supply room doors, and that was all the explanation the Spy needed.

Ah. So the Engineer did have a plan. She had gone off to place a teleporter exit somewhere so they could try and claim the control point from another direction.

Assuming, of course, that she could make it past the REDs and their sentries unnoticed. No doubt the rest of the BLUs were an entertaining distraction, but would that be enough?

Apparently yes, for by the time the Spy had finished his cigarette and flicked the butt away, the teleporter at their feet began to whirr and emit an inviting blue glow as it spun to life.

The Spy brushed off his suit and gestured at the Demolition Lady, careful not to step within sapping distance without her permission. “Shall we, zen?”

The Demo was still eyeing him with suspicion, and when the Sniper and the Pyro chose that moment to step out of the resupply room, she nodded for them to go first. And then the Soldier. And the Medic and the Heavy. And both of the other Spies, one of whom even had the audacity to smirk and politely thank him for giving way for the more productive members of the team!

Soon half the team had been whisked away, including the other Demo hauling the Engineer’s packed up sentry and dispenser, and the Spy was still waiting for his turn, tapping the ground with one expensive Italian shoe in silent indignation. Being the newest member of the team didn’t automatically mean he warranted less respect than the others, but his ailment had certainly encouraged that kind of thinking. When the Demo finally deemed it suitable to let him through, the Spy huffed a sullen “Many zanks” as he stepped on the spinning blue wheel.

When he next blinked his eyes, the Spy found himself between the RED’s front lines and the currently uncontested B territory. Their Engineer had set up a nest in an upper tunnel that could be accessed from the middle of the battlefield but not from the RED’s side, so thanks to her, they could now attack the REDs on two fronts and cut off their support line.

The others were already off and only the Engineer herself remained in the tunnel, upgrading her machines.

“Teleporter give your head a spin?” she asked, raising her gaze from the sentry and wiping the grease from her hands on her apron. She was a stout woman in her fifties, with both laugh lines and early worry wrinkles mapping her face. She didn’t bake, but on the battlefield she wore a frilly apron one would have expected to see on a stereotypical American housewife making apple pies – except hers was blue instead of the traditional red and had maple leaf patterns instead of little hearts. On the front it read in big white letters ‘I love Canada’. Upon questioning she had said it was a gift from her family, and its primary function was to drive the RED Soldier into ballistic rage whenever spotting her. “I get free dominations just from letting him run straight into my sentry fire. Hasn’t failed yet!”

The Spy resisted the urge to grit his teeth, opting to pointedly straighten his tie and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. He knew his face was pale and clammy behind the mask, but he hadn’t so much as misstepped when coming through the teleporter, his every movement easy and graceful as a cat’s. He detested the implication that just any machine ripping his body into molecules and teleporting them to another location for a quick reassembly would make him sick, but since snapping at the Engineer would do little good, he just offered a curt, “Non. I’m fine, zank you.”

The Engineer looked pleased behind her smelting goggles and clapped him enthusiastically on the back. “Skookum! Then you can get busy and give them REDs some bad time, eh? Double O One took their teleporter down on this side, so make sure none of them gets across the map to help their little friends on Point Eh, eh?”

The Spy had no idea what ‘skookum’ was supposed to mean, but decided to not waste time asking and simply nodded before heading out through the gate and activating his cloak.

‘Double O One’ would be the BLU’s senior Spy, a self-absorbed but undeniably classy and skilled Frenchman the new Spy thought might well be vain enough to have come up with the secret service agent inspired nickname himself. Either way, it had evidently stuck, and the team’s second Spy was named in the same vein. The Spy supposed that made him ‘Double O Three’, but so far he had mostly heard his teammates use rather less dignified nicknames when talking about – and sometimes to – him.

Once he was out, the Spy checked his watch and disguised himself as the RED Scout. He could do this. He was just as efficient as the other two Spies, and all he had to do to keep it that way was do his job and not get dragged through respawn in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long time and I’m genuinely sorry for that. Real life, as we all know, is a bitch, but I won’t bore you with that. Also, don’t hold your breath, but I might actually get the next chapter done soonishly. Stuff is gonna happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Stage 2, Point B**

“YOU STOLE MY KILL, CROUTON!”

“Monsieur Soldat,” the Spy said as he retrieved his knife from between the RED Demoman’s shoulder blades and let the body fall limp to the ground, “you knew I was picking off REDs in ze corridor. Surely you are busy enough wiz ze ones taking ze open route.”

“I SAW HIM FIRST – THAT MEANS HE WAS MINE! THAT’S THE AMERICAN LAW!”

They were in the doorway of the large building near point B, which you could just make out at the other end of the long corridor. The place would soon be crawling with more angry REDs than either of them could handle if they continued to stand there in the open, so the Spy wasn’t about to waste time with what was sure to be a pointless argument with the Soldier. Seeing the charge meter on his watch was full, he activated his cloak and was about to return to his perch on the second floor, but the raving American was quicker than he expected and grabbed his arm.

“HOLD ON, CASPER. I’M NOT DONE WITH YOU YET!”

“Unhand me, Soldier – now!” the Spy hissed, fighting against the Soldier’s iron grip and his own raising panic. The man was being altogether too loud, and it was only a matter of seconds before he would lure all the respawning REDs right to them.

Ignoring him completely, yet not loosening his hold even a little, the Soldier gave the offending RED corpse a kick with his boot, as if hoping to see a sign that it needed some further killing. Only when that failed did the overly patriotic simpleton turn to peer at the Spy from under his helmet, unfazed by the fact that he was essentially talking to thin air. Maybe that was nothing new to him. “Since you’re so eager to show some initiative, you’re gonna help me capture their control point!” he barked and started shoving him towards the RED respawn, still not letting go.

”Zat’s point B, you imbecile! Wouldn’t it be more productive to go to ze point we can actually capture?”

“NEGATORY! Going back there from here would be _retreating_ , and only REDs would do something so cowardly!“

The Spy finally succeeded in wrenching his arm free, and would’ve gladly just left and let the idiot Soldier charge the wrong point if he so wished, but forced himself to grab the man’s sleeve before he rocket jumped out of reach, if strictly for the objective’s sake. “Engineer brought ze teleporter ‘ere so we could flank ze REDs and get point A, not fool around on uncontested territory.”

“Bah! I don’t take orders from Canucks! They don’t know square about war and have no business in being in one! Making health insurances is all those non-Americans are good for!”

The Spy knew the BLU Engineer’s nationality was a source of great aggravation for their own Soldier as well, and sometimes it was difficult to say which one hated her more for it, him or the RED Soldier. Apparently being Canadian was the worst crime an American could commit.

But that wasn’t his problem, the Spy decided, taking stock of his cloak meter. He had done what could be expected from him. “Suit yourself, but she won’t be ‘appy if we lose ze round because of you.”

The Soldier growled, but the Spy couldn’t help noticing that he did reluctantly turn around and blast himself toward the correct control point.

During the next twenty minutes the Spy managed to get a few good kills, including another stab at the enemy Sniper. A couple of times more, and he’d get a domination. More importantly, he had successfully avoided death himself, even as it was getting increasingly difficult with the enemy being alert for him. To top that off, it had been so long since his last respawn that the headache was finally gone and he was feeling nearly as good as new.

Now if only he could keep it that way, but avoiding death seemed to be nearly impossible in these small-scale wars.

With him and the Soldier killing the REDs on this side and the Demos’ sticky bombs taking care of the ones that made it to the tunnels, they might well have a chance to overcome the REDs on point A. The REDs could hold the point so long as the Engineers were alive and the dispensers up and running, but his colleagues were no doubt trying to rectify that at the very moment.

There was the sound of an explosion from the entrance of one tunnel, and the Spy saw one of the BLU Demos soaring through the air before opening a parachute and shooting stickies at the next wave of REDs approaching the tunnels. She would have landed on the ledge over the tunnels if the freshly respawned enemy Sniper hadn’t picked her off midair. The Demo’s lifeless body landed gracelessly on the courtyard, and the BLU Soldier was soon to follow her to respawn as the RED Scout made an impossible jump from the second floor – armed with a frying pan of all things! – and yelled madly as he hit the Soldier in the face at the same time as the man shot a rocket at him. The resulting explosion blasted them both to bits that rained all over the battlefield.

The Spy shook his head at the sight, taking a step to the left to avoid the frying pan that would surely have crushed his skull otherwise. The mercenaries here were hardened lunatics (with a few notable exceptions, including himself, obviously), who weren’t afraid to die even under normal circumstances, and in a place where people had more lives than cats they could discard them as carelessly as a can of that repulsive soda the team’s two Scouts were constantly drinking.

Which meant that when the remaining REDs didn’t take the opportunity to get to point A but instead suddenly panicked and ran in every direction in a spontaneous and very unorganized retreat, it could only mean one thing.

_“WHAAAAA–!”_

As if on que, a long, shrill cry cut the air, along with a red clad figure that chilled the Spy to the bone, and he hastily made a run for the main building. Cloak or no cloak, he didn’t want to be wherever she landed.

_“–AAAT’S COOKING!”_

The RED’s new Soldier landed in the middle of the courtyard with a sharp crack of bones but no cry of pain. She was on one knee, and from the unnatural angle of the other leg it was clear it was broken. The crazed woman showed no more care towards her own safety than that of her team’s, and would often keep shooting at her own feet to wreak havoc from above until she either ran out of rockets or blasted herself too badly to return to the sky. She was never on the ground if she could help it, which made her a poor choice of disguise – not to mention her reaction if she _saw_ you disguised as her.

The woman had dropped her helmet at some point, so when she raised her head, her gleeful and absolutely unhinged face was fully visible for once. Her eyes were hollow and full of violence at the same time, and in spite of her injuries her smile didn’t falter, even as she breathed in shallow gasps and the rocket launcher slipped from her bloody hands. She was bleeding, her clothes torn and the Spy could smell her burnt hair all the way from here.

Now would have been the prime time to kill her, that is, if you felt like approaching a wounded, schizophrenic wolf. The Spy wouldn’t go any closer to the demented RED for any price, but he would have picked her off with his revolver had it not been for the curious scene before him, for there was one other person still in the area – the RED’s Scandinavian Medic.

She hadn’t run away like the others, but stayed and even took the first step towards her, Medigun raised and ready to heal. Her movements were jerky and alert for any kind of violent sign from her teammate, and the mere raising of her head had the Medic jump back with a yelp. The Soldier’s gaze swept over the courtyard – the Spy’s heart skipped a beat as her eyes seemed to meet his for a split-second – before spotting the Medic.

The Medic, who had been rocking nervously back and forth on her heels, torn between running and performing her duty to a wounded teammate when the same teammate was likely to attack her as soon as her mobility was restored, froze up completely. The feeling of dread hung heavy in the air as the two stared at each other – the Medic gaping at her, eyes wide with fear behind her rectangular glasses, while the Soldier started rasping something that sounded suspiciously like “Mustn’t be late for dinner. Mustn’t be late…” It would have been ridiculous if the eerie smile on her face hadn’t made it sound so ominous.

Then the RED Soldier was suddenly getting up, standing surprisingly steadily on one foot and picking up her rocket launcher, which might not have been out of ammo after all. Just then the Spy heard footsteps and happy muffled noises approaching from behind, and he had just enough time to flatten himself against the wall before the RED Pyro ran straight into him. The Medic was still held still by the Soldier’s stare like a deer caught in headlights, unable to move even when the rocket launcher was aimed at her and the Soldier announced in a voice completely devoid of emotion, “You’re fired.”

There was no doubt in the Spy’s mind that the Soldier would kill both the Medic and the just arrived Pyro without a second thought – they had all seen that the RED Soldier was unable to discriminate between the BLUs and her teammates – and was unprepared for the way the Soldier’s face lit up upon seeing the Pyro. The two ended up doing some kind of little dance involving the Soldier doing a pirouette with her one good leg, both making unintelligible but excited noises all the while. The Spy’s eye brows rose in surprise, he hadn’t known there was even one person on the RED team the Soldier didn’t greet with exclusively murderous intention, let alone that she could be, er… friends with one of them.

The Medic didn’t look surprised by the sight of their strange display, but was clearly immensely relieved, and she quickly took the opportunity to click on the Medigun and turn its red beam to the Soldier. As she did so, she turned to address the Pyro. “Te BLUs must have a teleport somewhere in te tunnels. I’ll build an Über and we’ll take it down, ja?”

The pyromaniac stopped the square dance he and the Soldier had started and nodded, then explained the plan to his friend, who inexplicably seemed to understand – if hefting the rocket launcher on her shoulder and barking “Beets!” could be taken as confirmation. The three headed out into the tunnels, the Medic gratefully taking her place behind the Pyro and keeping him between herself and the Soldier.

The BLU Spy decided he had observed long enough and rushed after them. His cloak had faded a minute ago and he didn’t have a disguise on, but that didn’t matter when he caught the Medic and drove his knife into her back and twisting it, killing her instantly.

_Look on ze bright side: at least you weren’t killed by one of your fellow REDs._ He recloaked as fast as possible, but there was no need – the Pyro continued on after the Soldier, completely oblivious to the fate of his teammate.

Since his team’s position here was secured for now – the BLU Engineer and the Demos could take the enemy Pyro and Soldier easily without a Medic to übercharge them, and the Spy was only too glad to leave the demented Soldier for them – the Spy darted down another tunnel. That’s about when his streak of good luck ended, however, for barely a minute later he encountered the enemy Heavy and the other RED Medic, who must have seen him switching disguises, for they wasted no time shooting him down with obvious relish.

The Spy materialized in the BLU respawn and almost immediately collapsed on his hands and knees on the floor. He was breathing hard, his vision became blurry and his whole body started to sweat even as he shook uncontrollably. He held his breath as his stomach began to twist and turn, then released it in a pained groan. His pulse began to race so loud he could hear it in his ears, a white noise that drowned all other sounds.

Trying to stop the room from spinning in his eyes, the Spy hung his head, one gloved fist clenched so tight the leather creaked, the other rising to cover his mouth in case he couldn’t swallow the bile back down. He could feel it burning his throat, his mouth flooding with saliva, and it was clear what was to come. Not wanting anyone to see him in such a wretched state, he slowly raised his head to look around but had no idea if there were others in the room. The only thing he knew was that the lights were all too bright, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to fight the rising sickness, however futile he knew it to be. True enough, when his stomach lurched, he reached his hand out blindly and found the bucket just in time to avoid a mess on the floor as he vomited.

The Spy heaved up several waves of foul yellow slurry and whatever had been left of his last meal that hadn’t come up already after his last respawn. When he was finally free to catch his breath, he felt completely wrung out. Sweat was sticking the mask to his face, his pulse was still hammering in his ears, and he knew it still wasn’t over – the nausea would ebb, yes, but come back in semiregular waves of sweating and shivering and terrible vertigo, all of which would leave him unable to stay on his feet without support. That meant he would be useless in battle unless healed by a Medic or a dispenser.

“Dude, you okay there?” asked a blurry figure in shorts that had materialized in front of him. Or had it been there the whole time?

The Spy looked up, squinting his eyes at the Scout, but his vision just wouldn’t clear enough to make out more than a vague shape of a face with oversized eyes he knew to be the goggles with corrective lenses he wore in battle. The Spy blinked a few times, then gave up the effort and forced himself to look composed and to not care how badly he failed.

“I’ll be fine shortly,” he grunted, reflexively fixing his tie and suit even as he was still on his knees on the dusty floor. He would have preferred not to be seen when feeling so weak, but once this ill he simply couldn’t leave the respawn room quickly enough not to be spotted by at least one or two of his teammates, who were also respawning – without any nausea whatsoever, those lucky connards – or getting more ammo from the resupply lockers.

“Ya look like shit.”

“Zank you for ze keen observation.”

“Ya don’t need to be a jerk about it. Jus’ wanted ta help. Want some gum?” The Scout – who was now slightly less blurry – was unwrapping some as he spoke, then proceeded to tear it in half and offered the Spy one pink chunk as he stuck the second half in his mouth.

“Non. Ah, I don’t suppose you’d ‘appen to ‘ave any aspirin?”

“Nah, you’re gonna hafta ask the doc.” The Scout took a look into the bucket at his knees and sneered. “Gross, man. I’ll open the window before I go or the place’s gonna smell like barf all day.”

“My apologies for the inconvenience,” the Spy muttered. Yes, he needed the Medic – or a dispenser, whichever he found first. The problem was that the Medic could be anywhere on the battlefield, and dispensers didn’t always last long before being destroyed, so there was no guarantee the Engineer would still have her set up in the same place. Spies could also make good use of the enemy team’s dispensers and Mediguns when disguised, but he’d still need to get back on his feet to go look for them, and at the moment his pride was the only thing keeping him from slumping on the floor completely.

He had no desire for the Scout to see his legs shake – and possibly give out beneath him – so he waited for him to leave before even attempting to get up. Swallowing hard, he pushed the bucket aside, meaning to empty it in the bathroom once he felt sure he wouldn’t need it again, and slowly and carefully picked himself up. His body protested at every move and his headache was back with a vengeance, but eventually he managed to stand up, albeit taking support from the nearest locker.

It would have been easier to wait here for the Medic to respawn or come by to stock up on syringes. While waiting, he could maybe lie down on a bench to make the next wave of nausea a little easier to bear, but under no circumstances was he going to let any more of his teammates see him here being useless if he could help it. So once he had drunk a little to soothe his still burning throat and avoid dehydration, the Spy made his way out the gates to see which team’s dispenser he’d find first. If he could just recover by one for a while, he could make a difference in the match yet.

While he had been in respawn, the battle had progressed to the next control point, leaving the first area empty. The teleporter was gone too, which meant the BLU Engineer might currently be in respawn herself. So as luck would have it, he found no Engineers, but he did catch a glimpse of the Medic he’d backstabbed earlier, near the building that housed the first Control Point, which was now flashing blue.

The RED Medic was running in circles, and if the Spy hadn’t known better, he’d have assumed her coattails were on fire, but he had been in Dustbowl long enough to know that this was nothing out of ordinary when it came to Medics, and this one in particular. The North European woman was always skipping and hopping from side to side and making random sprints in different directions while healing her teammates, and would only stop when activating an Übercharge – the earlier instance with the RED Soldier was the only time the Spy had seen her truly stand still. The Medic’s habit made her look ridiculous, like she was dancing some silly dance while high on Bonk! or had forgotten to go to the bathroom before battle. Apparently she believed it made her a more difficult target for Snipers and Spies, and judging by how often the Spy had so far backstabbed the other RED Medic instead of her, she wasn’t entirely wrong.

The Medic was normally never alone, but no doubt she had come here following one of her teammates, who had then got himself killed. Clearly aware how bad an idea it was to linger in the enemy territory, she soon disappeared behind a corner, presumably hoping to hide there, waiting for the opportune moment to sneak back through the tunnels.

Or until someone of her team happened to come by.

The Spy’s cloak was about to run out of power, so he hurried to take cover in the control point building as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him. Once there, he skimmed through his choices for a disguise. He needed someone who was noticeably wounded to warrant a healing, and after shifting through different REDs he decided on one of the enemy Soldiers ( _NOT the woman! Never again the woman…_ ), who had apparently been nearly cut in half, perhaps by one of the BLU Demos.

After making sure that no real REDs were nearby and that his watch had recharged, he stalked past the Medic, silent and invisible, and around the corner of the office building, where he once again decloaked. Approaching the Medic from this direction would make it appear as though he had just made it through the tunnels, and so he stumbled towards the Medic, clutching his ‘bleeding’ stomach as if to hold in his intestines, when in truth he was trying not to retch again.

“Medic! Medic!” he croaked in the Soldier’s voice.

The Medic swung around, suspicious and hopeful at the same time, and spotted her “teammate” coming from the tunnels. She looked happy to see him and hurried over after quickly checking if there were BLUs about. She raised her Medigun, and the Spy felt momentary relief before catching sight of the bonesaw in her other hand.

The motion was so quick and fluid that he might not have had time to react even if he had been at full health, but in his weakened state he had barely time to see the light flash off the blade before it was buried in his throat.

This time the Spy went all the way down on his back on the cold tiles of the respawn room, limbs pointing in whichever direction as he lay there like a landsick starfish. Then his whole body was seizing, his breath caught in his throat and suddenly he was hot, much too hot. Feeling his stomach flip and fearing he would choke on his own stomach acids, he managed to squirm himself on his side and tugged at his collar in a desperate but vain attempt to make breathing easier. The rush of blood filled his ears, and his vision seemed to narrow until the only thing he saw was the currently horizontal bottom left corner of the Pyro’s locker. Even that was hazy, but that’s what the Spy was left to stare at as he writhed on the floor, unable to breath or make a sound.

It shouldn’t have been even possible for it to feel this much worse than the last time. There wasn’t even anything left in his stomach to purge! Having endured this agony nearly every day for weeks on end, he should have been used to it by now, yet was helpless to resist as tide after tide of pain and nausea hit him, making him wish he were dead. Had his tormented lungs not been too busy trying to provide him with much needed air, he would have laughed at the irony.

When at last the tremors died down a bit and he gradually regained his senses, the Spy was lying on his side in a fetal position, sucking in short, shuddering breaths. Before he had been so hot he was sweating bullets, but now he was shivering with cold. There was a small mess on the tiles next to him, mostly just water and spit, but at least no one had been there to see him retch this time. Two deaths in such a short succession was all too much. The RED Medic must have somehow seen through his disguise. Perhaps she had just seen the Soldier elsewhere or knew when the man was last killed and it was too soon for him to be back.

The Spy wiped the drool off the side of his mouth and made a feeble attempt to stand up, but only ended up crumpling back down, dizzy and exhausted. There was no reaching the Medic or Engineer on his own anymore, he was lucky if he could crawl out of the respawn room and around the corner where his teammates wouldn’t see him writhe and sob in pain and hurl his guts out when the next surge of sickness hit him.

With great effort the Spy managed to make it out the doors. By then the sick feeling was returning, but he still took a couple of more steps while leaning heavily against the wall. The blood was pounding louder in his ears, and he didn’t know whether to clutch his head or his stomach, didn’t know which required his attention more. Pressure was building in his head and he felt dangerously close to passing out. It was as if something was physically dragging him down, and as he slid down in the dirt, he became vaguely aware of a pair of hands not his own, and realized it might actually be the case.

He was gagging again, and his ribs ached from the effort. His eyelids fluttered down at his shoes, but he could feel that someone had hooked an arm under his and around his back and was now walking, but mostly dragging, him somewhere. The Spy could but stagger along, powerless to stop it.

There was a voice, but it seemed to be coming from somewhere far away, barely audible but unmistakably gleeful. “Did you tink I kouldn’t tell a wounded man from a sick one?”


	6. Chapter 6

The Spy forced his head up to look at the RED Medic, but couldn’t bring it high enough to see more than her red tie and the victorious smile playing on her lips. When the pressure in his head eased between surges of sickness, however, he saw they were in a dimly lit hallway with wooden walls, and blinked in confusion. He had been by the BLU respawn, hadn’t he? What was this place? The air around them smelled stale, and the half-rotten floor boards creaked with every step.

He must have lost consciousness for a time, though he couldn’t recall either passing out or waking up.

Hoping to catch the Medic off guard, he reached for his knife, but didn’t have the energy to put up much of a fight, and after an embarrassingly short grappling the Medic overcame him and pulled the knife from his weak grip before it got near any vital organs, only making a minor cut on one shoulder. She said something in that rough accent of hers, but the Spy was too disorientated to know what it was – it may not even have been in English. The next wave of nausea was coming on fast, and soon the Medic was carrying nearly his entire weight.

“Here we are,” the Medic announced after what seemed like mere seconds, but could well have been minutes. She had taken a turn around a corner, and in spite of the daze he was in the Spy saw a small space where there was only cobwebs and some flattened cans of soda. The dust-covered floor indicated that no one’d had any business there in quite a while.

When the Medic shifted her hold of him, the Spy made another attempt to free himself and delivered a weak punch in her chest, one the Medic ignored completely. Panting a little from the effort of dragging him all this way, she manoeuvred his shaking, half-conscious form on the bare floor. It gave the Spy a small measure of relief, for it made him a little less lightheaded.

From his new position the Spy could see a flicker of blue light from between cracks in the ceiling. Point A must be right above them, and his eyes widened in belated realization that the Medic had effectively taken him prisoner and brought him to a place where no one of either team would hear them or have any reason to come to, leaving her free to do with him as she pleased.

Why had the Medic brought him here instead of finishing him right then and there? The answer was easy enough: revenge. The Spy had killed her earlier that day, and several times before. No doubt the Medic wanted to kill him slowly and without either team interrupting her, so he didn’t know if he was more relieved or alarmed that the Medic hadn’t yet struck the killing blow. Why hadn’t she started hacking off his limbs one at a time yet?

He didn’t have time to ponder it any further, though, before his body was racked with spams and another fit of dry heaving. He loathed to be in such a state in the presence of an enemy, but there was no stopping the nausea, and for the ringing in his ears and the loud thumping of his heart he couldn’t even tell if he was moaning in pain or not. The hot agony ripping through him, he was unable to stop red rubber gloves from digging into his suit and pulling out his revolver and disguise kit. The former was thrown into a corner, while the latter was opened and studied carefully. It had a radius of a few feet, so the likeness of the RED Soldier – which the Spy didn’t have any recollection of activating – didn’t flicker and disappear until the Medic found the correct button to turn the device off.

“Tere we go, no need for tat,” she said conversationally, then took off her gloves and sat down close enough that she could support the Spy’s upper body until he was done retching and no longer at risk of swallowing his tongue or choking on spit. Once it was over, the Spy sagged against her shoulder, and she gathered him in her lap. There was drool trickling down his chin and seeping into his already sweat soaked balaclava, and it proved the extent of his malady that he didn’t have the will to wipe it off. He did, however, flinch when the Medic’s now bare hand brushed his cheek and wiped his mouth.

Too exhausted to do anything else, the Spy blinked blearily up at her. Up close she smelled of strong coffee, disinfectant and stale hay. Her glasses were a bit crooked, but her blonde hair remained firmly in place and away from her face thanks to the gratuitous number of hairpins she used in battle. The place the Spy had nicked earlier was already closing up due to the passive effect of the medipack on her back, and she paid the torn coat no mind, eyes intently on him.

“What… ze ‘ell… are you doing?” the Spy rasped, trying to regain his breath.

“Karing for you, of kourse,” she laughed. “You asked for my help yourself!” The notion seemed to amuse her to no end.

The Spy felt his face flush at the utter indignity of it all. Here he was, a master of international espionage – sophisticated, dangerous and always perfectly collected – now brought so low by nausea no one else was affected by, helpless as a ragdoll and looking like a mess. And to have it all on display for the enemy Medic’s private entertainment! And the Medic was clearly reveling in it, her eyes hungrily eating up every detail of his disheveled form.

Unarmed and too powerless to even stand on his own, there was little hope that he could defeat the Medic, and calling for help was out of the question, even with the chance that a BLU passing the building might hear him. No one could see him like this!

“Just kill me,” the Spy groaned, even as it horrified him to think of the pain it would bring if the Medic complied; if the previous respawn had made him this sick, the next one…

Yet the Medic did nothing of the sort, instead continuing to cradle his head in her lap, one hand feeling his clammy forehead, the other smoothing down his neck to play with his tie.

“Your kondition is so fascinating. How many times have you died today? You must be dehydrated from all tat perspiration. What experiments has te BLU Medic tried on you yet? Would you describe te pain as konstant or fluctuating? What kind of gastrointestinal problems do you have? Any konstipation or bloody diarrhea?” she asked, new questions pouring out in almost frantic excitement once she got started.

Just when he thought he couldn’t disgrace himself any further. _Of course_ the RED’s Medic would have noticed his nausea wasn’t just an isolated incident, and that meant that probably the whole RED team knew as well. Fueled by the rage from this new aspect of his humiliation, the Spy tried to shove the Medic’s hands away and pull himself upright. Failing that, he hissed through gritted teeth, “Kill me… or mind your own business.”

“Later. Would you like some water? Are you still feeling hot? Here, I’ll help,” she chattered on, and the Spy couldn’t stop it when her deft fingers loosened the knot and removed the blue tie. Then they wormed under the hem of his balaclava, and the Spy went rigid.

_No! She is going to– No! NO!_

The Spy jerked his head away, thrashing and squirming to get out of the Medic’s reach. “Get off of me! If you so much as touch my mask–!” he snarled, but was stopped short by the bile rising in his throat and threatening to choke him. Black spots filled his vision, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from elbowing the Medic in the face. Her nose gave a satisfying crunch and her glasses fell off, but it wasn’t enough to make her let go. He fought in earnest, but his strength was fading fast, and once he was reduced to a retching wreck again, the Medic pulled him back in her arms. Her nose was bleeding, and some of the watery vomit landed on her hand and sleeve. The Spy would have taken some pleasure in staining her uniform, had the cursed RED not taken the opportunity to unmask him.

“I’ll strangle you in your sleep!” he hissed between coughs as the fabric was pulled up his neck and over his chin, and soon his face was fully exposed.

“Tere, looks much better.”

The Spy’s blood boiled from both sickness and outrage. How dare this fraud of a doctor do that! People had died for less than seeing his face, and the Medic had just casually uncovered it! He had wanted to take the sweat-soaked thing off himself all day, and the Medic had taken the liberty to do it for him. The nerve of that RED hag!

His hair was sweaty and flat against his head, but the Medic reached out with no hesitation and ran her fingers through the black locks, then playfully ruffled his hair. Sweat was rolling off his brow freely now, and the Spy felt even more vulnerable than before, if that was even possible.

When the gagging and coughing finally stopped, he let his head fall back in her lap, mainly because he had no other options and no strength left. The Medic held him in a warm embrace, loosening her hold when the fever reached its peak and pulling him closer when the cold sweat set in and he began to shiver again. Her hands had worked slow, calming circles into his shoulders all through the fit, and now they settled back stroking his hair and wiping the sweat off his face with a red handkerchief.

“I’ll kill you for zis – for good!” the Spy snarled with all the venom of a toothless cobra, but the Medic just kept petting him and cooing in a soft voice, her breath tickling the shell of his ear.

“Tat’s right, you will be alright soon. Don’t worry.”

The Spy could barely see her face through his half-conscious haze, but when his vision came momentarily into focus, he saw that he was not the only one with a glassy gaze – the Medic’s pupils were noticeably dilated, and there was a slight flush in her cheeks.

Their eyes met, and when he saw her smile down at him in that warm, unconcealed fondness, the gravity of the true extent of the horrifying, twisted and utterly insane fascination the RED Medic had for his present state hit him harder than the nausea. If he wasn’t sick before, he certainly was _now_ , and with energy he didn’t know he still possessed he began to trash wildly to get free.

“Hush hush, now, älskling,” the RED said gently, easily holding him down, and there was nothing he could do but lie there, sweat cooling, listening to his slowly calming heartbeat as the Medic comforted him in mixed English and Swedish.

When the Administrator’s voice blared out of the speakers all over Dustbowl, calling the end of battle and RED’s victory, the Medic looked slightly disappointed, but then merely shrugged and gave the Spy a serene smile as she drew her melee weapon. “Remember to drink plenty of fluids and eat a good meal to make up for te lost nutrients and salts,” she said in a patronizing tone, a perfect facsimile of an ordinary medical practitioner. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow. We will see each oter soon, I’m sure.”

_Not if I see your back first_ , the Spy thought just before the Medic sawed his throat open.

She’d pay.


End file.
